This is a writing by one of my friends that I wanted to share with you because I really enjoyed it. Don’t worry – I have her permission.
by LeighAnn Blaszak
Within me there is a woman who loves discipline like a mother cherishes silence. She wraps rigidity around her ribs and stamps unruliness on her heel so that it can be crushed against the unforgiving ground with each of her measured steps. She clings to rules, repeating them with the reverence of the Hail Mary, with the evenness of rosary beads, while she papers the straight shelving of her mind with marbled maps and bulleted inventories.
She has known joy, known laughter, known love, but within each of them she senses the heartbeat of a nameless shadow, a brooding dragon from whose nostrils coils the smoke of unconquerable passion, unassailable freedom, an invincible torrent of insubordinate emotion. These latent nests of temptation stir within her fingers the desire to strangle, within her feet the desire to smother, within her mind the desire to overcome. So she binds them in steel wool, cages them in barbed wire, and presses them inside the confines of a locket which she wears over her right breast, keeping it at a calculated distance from her heart.
In her life there is music: the icy whine of a violin, the sorrowful slur of a cello, and the reverberating thud of a goat skin drum. But it is the rhythm of her own restraint that causes her to dance: each of her movements etched into her joints, scrawled in scars across her hipbones, choreographed even before she took her first breath. Paced. Precise. Perfect.
She speaks in metaphors, lies by omission, and practices manipulation, but she feels no guilt. To her, there is only her. To her, she is her own motivation, her own defender, her only hope. Her body is her temple to her own divine possibility and within it she finds peace and blessed assurance of her own strength. She loves bones, loves the idea that she is held together by powerful white pillars that are hard, and cool, and that would rather break than bend, rather self-destruct than allow inconsistency.
She is rigid. She is cold. But within her is a strength and a restraint that would make Spartans envy, a discipline that would make hooded monks seem like lenient lushes in hollow houses of lost kings.
Within me there is a girl who loves freedom like a mother cherishes kisses. She wraps rebellion around her wrists and pencils her mother’s rules in between the lines of her poetry so that they can be mocked by her sympathizing audience with each flippant roll of her eyes. She clings to passion, letting it flow unbridled through her blood with the ardor of Amazing grace, with the honesty of hallelujahs, while she papers the winding pathways of her mind with Van Goghs and wildflowers.
She has known joy, known laughter, known love, but within each one she senses the seasonal migration of temporary euphoria, a taste of heaven that only lasted for the length of a stolen sunset, a hurried hour of abandoned inhibitions, a momentary tangle of legs and thighs and secrets exchanged under hotel sheets. These brief encounters with ecstasy stir within her fingers a desire to intertwine with another’s, within her feet a desire to dance, and within her mind to renew her belief in the future and to draw wisdom from the mistakes she has made. So she wraps them in the thick pages of a hand bound journal, folds them into little white birds, and lets them nest over left breast, keeping them warm above the steady beat of her heart.
In her life there is music: the warm breath of a guitar, the sweet ring of a piano, and the reverberating thud of a goat skin drum. But it is the rhythm of her own free will that causes her to dance: each of her movements born a moment after their completion, spun spontaneously by the twists of her hipbones, choreographed by the tension of melody and harmony that exist from second to second. Pure. Passionate. Perfect.
She speaks even the most revealing of truths, lies only by exuberant exaggeration, and practices sincerity, but feels no vulnerability. To her, she exists only as part of a global whole. Each of the world’s mysteries is her motivation, each person is her defender, and each child is her hope. Her body is merely a vessel for her own divine possibility and within she finds peace and blessed assurance that each of us is derived of the same substance. She loves every aspect of her own unique shape, loves the idea that her inherent curves echo the silhouettes of Isis and Eve, soft and secure even in their untouched passage through time.
She is exposed. She is faltering. But within her is a strength and an imagination that would make Lennon envy, a passion that would make celebrated artists seem like blundering blindmen in hollow halls of blank canvases.